Windows to the soul
by Trashcactiqueen
Summary: Soulmate au where you can't see the colour of your soulmate's eyes until you see them, fluffy phan and yay


"It's warm, I guess, somehow rich and soft at the same time. Hell, I'm not a poet Phil, I don't know how to describe the colour brown, it's not really a remarkable colour"

"Yeah well it's a mystery to me"

" It's the colour of the the sea and the sky and ice. If I had to try describe it then…. Cold? Icy? I'll guess you'll just have to find out"

" I guess I will, along with the others"

The chill in the air marks the fact that the summer is officially over. School has started, the prospect of 3am self-hate fuelled homework-marathons looming over me. The fact that there are no other similarly blazer-clad students in sight is a bad omen; I'm late. What a great start to the year.

The monochromatic leaves carpeting the ground remind me sharply of what's at stake. Brown – the colour of chocolate, of crisp autumn leaves – eludes me. The word "soulmate" makes me cringe, conjuring up images of cheesy teen novels, Romeo and Juliet. However, the reason for my inability to see this snippet of the rainbow is because my "soulmate's" eyes are brown. Many people never meet "the one", destined to never experience that moment where the world around you floods with colour when you first look into their eyes. To be honest I've given up on mine to come along. I wonder why I'm so cynical today – usually people describe me as fairly 'happy-go-lucky",usually the lack of a soulmate doesn't get me down this much. Putting it down to the impeding exams and bitter weather, I stuff my hands deeper into my pockets and I break into a bit of a jog. Normally I wouldn't mind just getting a late pass but it's the first day – I might as well try.

I follow the circulating hands of my watch, cringing at the fact that it was already 8:20 and I still have ten stops to go. The bus lurches along infuriatingly slowly and my feet tap an impatient rhythm on the sticky vinyl floor. A shrivelled elderly lady gives me a pointed look and I freeze; she's wearing entirely monochrome, but not the normal monochrome that others see. It's fuzzy around the edges, the pigment seeming to shift before my eyes – the sign of a missing colour. Lucky for me, I have three missing colours, what they call yellow, green and blue. People sometimes tease me about the fact that my soulmate has some psychedelic, colour changing eyes and it must be true. Why else would those hues of light evade me? Unless I'm just colourblind. That would be a plot twist. Either way I doubt that I'll ever find those missing jigsaw pieces of my vision seeming as I'm irrationally fearful of eye contact. Even if my soulmate passed right before me, I wouldn't even know; I'd be too busy staring intently at my shoes.

Laughing at my wandering thoughts, I almost slam into granny as we round a corner, the plastic handles hanging from the ceiling wildly as I lose my grip. Ugh, tall people problems.

By the time the doors slide open at my stop I'm already fifteen minutes late. I shout a thank you at the bus driver and sprint towards the gates of the school, paying no heed to the honks of annoyance as I cut across the road without a glance.

By now I am sprinting flat out. My jagged breath betrays the fact that this is the most exercise I've done in a while and the straps of my rucksack dig into my back. I chuckle as I see someone else in the same predicament as me, running from the opposite direction, their hair a blur of not-colour.

It's then that they look up.

Brown. The gentle curls of his hair are suddenly painted in a colour I've never seen, filling a void I'd thought I'd finally learnt how to live with. It is warm. Memories of hot chocolate, of the oak tree on the corner of our road, fill my consciousness. My breath plumes out before me in staccato-like gasps, although now not entirely due to the exercise. He's gone before I can call out, their eyes never locking on mine.

I have just met my soulmate. I have no idea who they are. I may never see them again.

Dejectedly I slouch towards the squat concrete building, no longer caring about the late pass.

I have a distinct feeling of something being off. I can't quite place what it is but it's bothering me. I'm distracted throughout the first period, not really minding that, as the new kid at school, everyone inevitably stares at me. Was it the way that guy looked at me? I'd heard the rhythmic thud of his school shoes against the pavement and I'd looked up instinctively. I'd then trained my eyes back on the ground again not wanting to face any sort of confrontation. However in that one moment, that indistinct flash of jet black hair and pale skin seemed indescribably familiar. I could feel the heat of his eyes boring into me as I scarpered towards the grey bulk of the school.

I wonder what their name was?

If only knew their name. I replay that moment over and over throughout biology, oblivious to whatever the teacher was motioning at on the board. The classroom seems full of imitations of his eyes, none of the colours quite so rich, so dark.

PJ notices my spaced out mood, complaining when I knock our experiment onto the floor,

" I know you're clumsy Phil, but this is bad even for you. I don't believe you've listened to a single thing I've said all lesson"

I mumble some pathetic excuse about a headache but all I can focus on is the fact that PJ's hair is brown, his manicured mop of hair transformed by this revelation. It's curlier than the other boy's, ringlets crowding his head.

PJ has known me ever since we were small. He noticed that I'm acting weirdly (well weirder than normal) almost as soon as he sat down. His eyes fix on mine until he realises what I'm looking at. His face twists into an expression of foggy confusion before realisation finally hits him. Clasping a hand over his mouth, his voice is tense with excitement,

" You can see it.."

I've never been good at acting and spotchy patches of blush creep up my neck almost immediately, evidence of my guilt.

"Who is it?"

"I don't know"

My voice sounds petulant and weak so I cough and try again,

" I saw him at the gates, I've never seem him before and I doubt I will ever again"

" C'mon Lester, the guy is probably freaking out as well, he must have seen you in which case it won't take long before you see someone stumbling along with their face to the sky the entire time"

I try and force the quiver out of my voice but as I attempt to speak it cracks, Peej quirking an eyebrow.

"I don't think he saw me"

PJ looks astounded.

"Well shit Lester"

The unique smell of paint thinner and hot glue is so familiar I barely notice it as I saunter my way into the art department. I've always been what others call stubborn and pig-headed, and what I like to call determined and opinionated. So naturally, after being told that I should probably drop art as a subject due to my 'disadvantage', I then took it for my A -levels. In fact I've made my colour blindness work to my advantage, my project 'Art Blind' got predicted an A*. I basically spent my entire time trying to pursue those intangible parts of the spectrum.

My coursework is due in less than a month and, due to my incredible talents of procrastination, most of my artwork is incomplete or lost among the mess of paper heaped in a corner of the box room where I sleep. Sighing, I twirl the paintbrush between my fingers – I just haven't felt like painting at all lately. Inspiration is scarce, and the will to actually realise my ideas, even scarcer. The blank canvas before me seems to taunt me and for once I actually consider going to the cafeteria. Usually, the idea of the entire student body packed into one small room seems like hell on earth: their eyes, the jostling, the salty smell of whatever oversaturated crap they're cooking up in there (not that I'm a food snob but still). Anyway, I don't know what it is, but I can't seem to stand the thought of spending the entire break in the deserted art room like I almost always do.

Before I can think about what I'm doing and realise that it's a terrible idea, I sling my rucksack over my shoulder and head in the direction of the café. What the hell am I doing?

I prod a clump of unfrozen noodles with my plastic fork and once again scan the cafeteria. Surely he would be here somewhere? He's got to get lunch at some time, unless he brings his own, but in that case, where would he go? The same nagging questions have been jumbling around in my brain ever since we got out from bio. I chat and joke with the others, but to be honest, I feel more than a little spaced out – even the disgusting gummy ceiling has been turned into a masterpiece because it is brown. It's been a weird day. I roll the word ' brown' around my mouth a couple more times, loving the way that the letters were soft and lazy.

I instantly feel breathless as the image of his sleepy-soft-half-smile comes into mind, the way it crookedly slanted across his face, partially obscured by his fringe. I don't even know the guy and yet...

The thrum of the hall suddenly seems obnoxiously loud, an inexplicable weight. I need to leave. Now.

I excuse myself to leave (much to the distraught of Chris, who'd been in the middle of telling yet another of his woeful flirting stories) and make a beeline for the door.

I can feel their eyes following me go – I don't turn back, not wanting to be disappointed by the fact that they are not the eyes I desperately want to see.

I'm going home.

It's exactly the way as I remember it. I don't know why I thought it would be any different.

I feel sick.

As soon as I step through the double doors I hadn't been able to breath, the bodies crushing me from either side.

I feel like I'm about to cry.

Eyes burning, I fight the tears that are threatening to spill but fail to keep a small sob from escaping. Everyone must be looking at me – oh god. Why am I such a fuck-up? There are people my age out their running marathons or writing novels or surviving cancer and I can't even co-exist with other people without it feeling like the world is ending. I know it sounds melodramatic – I know but rational thinking is something I can never quite grasp once in the middle of a full-on attack. I try repeating the mantra my therapist once told me, " I am not defined by my anxiety, I am not defined by my anxiety" .

It doesn't work.

Why would I think that this would ever be a good idea? Why am I surprised? Why am I disappointed?

Then it hits me. I wanted to see him. Not that I even know who he is. Ever since this morning, a flash of black hair and skinny jeans have been following me around like a dream you can only half-remember. Looking around me, I realise he's not even here, or he could be, I only saw him for half a second. I don't know what I was expecting- to recognise him from a crowd of dark haired, skinny jean- clad people? I don't even know. But this isn't it.

I go to leave. My breathing although still shallow, has almost returned to normal. I refuse to acknowledge the fact that this might possibly be due to the fact that I was focusing entirely on the image of someone's pale, exposed collarbone almost gleaming in the weak sunlight and askew tie.

I'm going home.

***Three years later***

Normally I really enjoy my job. Sure, it's only working as a barista but I like talking to all the people that come through and, after all the months of constantly spilling the orders, I'm actually quite good at it too. It's a nice little place, a bit out of the way but with decent coffee and filled with vintage movie memorabilia that often sparks conversation. Mr Jared (the owner of ' I'll have what she's having' and yes he named the café after a 'When Harry met Sally' quote and yes he insists on us calling him that) is quite the movie junkie and occasionally he holds home theatre nights that have become somewhat renowned throughout the area. Also the extra income is of course much appreciated due to my uni-student-poor-level status (seriously I swear the tuition fees I pay in order to go to Manchester uni could buy me a mansion).

However, today I'm just not feeling it, all my movements seem sluggish and lethargic and the only thing getting me through the shift is the thought of collapsing into bed the moment I get home. Well, the moment I get back to my dorm. I'm staying on campus with a guy who really loves football. Not to say that's necessarily a bad thing, but the fact is, I don't think that I've ever heard him talk about a single other thing in the entire time I've met him. I just don't see how anyone can be so fascinated by people kicking a circular object around, but then again I've ever been one for sport or exercise in general. Also he probably finds my obsession for all things nerdy equally as weird.

I look up at the clock. Fifteen minutes until Carrie takes over my shift and I can relax.

I keep my eyes focused on the pavement. Despite the dark glasses that now constantly cover my eyes, I still don't want to risk having to look at anyone directly. It's gotten worse since coming to Manchester, whether it was the added stress of doing a degree I hate or the fact that Manchester is an absolute mess of a city, constantly moving and changing, nothing ever standing still, never having a plan, I don't glasses help. Let's leave it at that.

I find myself wandering down a street I hadn't been down before on my quest for caffeine. The one Starbucks I'd peered into had been almost full to burst and I was feeling too lazy to trek to the only Tesco. It's starting to get late, my shadow lengthening before me and the street lamps hesitantly flicking to life. Will any coffee shops even be open this late?

After about ten minutes of wandering aimlessly through the web of side streets that stitch the city together, I'm about to turn around when a sign catches my attention, and by that I mean it physically hits me in the face – ugh tall people problems. My glasses clatter to the ground and I fumble for them desperately. Once they are back in the proper position I breathe a sigh of relief. I'm okay. I'm fine. Looking up at the offending sign, I chuckle in dark amusement; it's a coffee shop. Fate? On further inspection, it seems quite empty, only one guy lounging at the counter and a gaggle of old ladies gossiping in a corner. A bell tinkles as I enter and the guy stands to attention with what looks like a genuine smile on his face, despite the fact that just a second ago, he looked like he was about to pass out on the counter from exhaustion. He must be a uni student.

"What will you be having today?"

To my surprise, the words I want to say don't shrivel or stick in my throat, but instead come out clear.

"What do you recommend?"

Am I seriously prolonging this conversation of my own accord?

" Well, personally I like the caramel latte, but then again, not everybody has a massively sweet tooth like me."

His words seem to be coated with barely concealed laughter, but for once I don't feel like they're laughing at me, but rather, with me at some inside joke we somehow share. Maybe because –

"They're my favourite too! I'm addicted to anything sugary to be honest."

"Woah, a fellow sugar junkie! Okay then, one caramel latte with extra syrup coming up"

He then turns his attention to the fairly alchemical-looking business of mixing my drink and I risk having a closer look at him. He's tall (although I like to note, not as tall as me) and I spot that his t-shirt under the faded, coffee-stained apron he has tied around his waist, is a gengar one. Surprising myself immensely again in just the last couple last of minutes, I strike up conversation again.

" Do you like Pokemon?"

"Wha – oh, yeah, I think of Pokemon as the gateway for all us 90s kids into the world of anime and Internet."

" Wait you watch anime?"

" Do I? Let's just say that anime may or may not be the cause of the end of my social life."

For the first time in what seems like forever, the conversation is flowing, unforced and without my tongue tying itself in knots.

" Ugh, tell me about it. So what's an anime nerd like you doing working in a movie café like this?"

He laughs and I notice that the tip of his tongue peeks through when he smiles.

"Well, when you open an anime themed café I'll be sure to apply"

He gives my drink an extra large squirt of whipped crème before handing it over to me across the counter, his long fingers barely brushing mine but filling my body with endless electricity. What is happening to me? This guy – how? My mind buzzing, I almost lift my eyes, almost want to do what I've avoided doing for as long as I can remember.

Then the world catches up with me and I stop. I can't. I like this guy and I don't want to freak him out by having a panic attack, he probably things I'm strange enough, what with the glasses. It's a grey day (like most in England), with no sun in sight, there's no reason why a normal person would be wearing black-out glasses, why he's probably talking to me out of pity –

I stop that train of thought as well I can. I'm not going to freak out.

We both round at the sound of the bell and a bouncy, curly haired woman in bright red lipstick comes through the door.

"Hey Phil"

"Hey"

He then directs the full warmth of his gaze back at me and does that insanely cute tongue-smiling thing again,

"Well I guess I better be going, but it was nice meeting you urrmmm…"

"Dan. Dan Howell"

" Nice, I'm Phil by the way and if you ever feel like watching anime or something then you know where to find me"

" Cool, also what about the money for the drink?"

" Oh it's on the house, don't worry"

Then he leaves, and the café seems to go a bit dimmer.

It's only when I realise that I've been staring at the imprint of where he was for way too long that I flush scarlet and hurry out to leave.

I never did manage to find my way back to that café, or talk to a certain Mr Phil Lester.

When I get back to the dorm, football-guy is fast asleep, his muddy boots discarded on the floor next to him. I sigh. Nice. I strip off my clothes and chuck them into a basket before rummaging in the dark for my pyjamas (yes I wear pyjamas, much to football-guy's amusement). I'm so exhausted it's tempting to just simply roll into bed now, but the thought of my eyes burning due to my contact lenses in the morning, drags me to the bathroom where I solemnly brush my teeth and fish the weird jelly disks out of my eyes.

The heating doesn't work and I wrap myself up in my duvet like a sushi roll and wriggle around to try warm up the sheets. I close my eyes but strangely I don't sleep. Despite being tired, all I can think about is the guy that I met in the café earlier. Thinking about it, it felt like I'd met him before. But how? I guess I'll never really know for certain, not with those glasses and fringe sort of obscuring his entire face. It was something in the smile though- lopsided and tentative but so full of warmth. Then I realise.

I've only ever seen that smile once before in my life.

I met my soulmate for the second time and let them slip right through my fingers.

I don't realise I'm crying until I taste the salty tears on my cheeks.

*** One year later***

I hate law. I fucking hate it.

It's Sunday evening and tomorrow I have another day of lectures and overdue essays to look forward did I ever choose this? Well, I know the answer – I chose it because I thought it would make me look smart, because art wasn't an option. Or maybe it could have been, if only I'd been able to find out.

It's gotten worse – the anxiety - I barely leave my dorm and my roommate asked to move about a moth ago because I was ' weird'. More like "doesn't stop crying himself to sleep, won't talk to me or even look at me, must be nocturnal, paces all night, has breakdowns on a regular basis and lays face down on the carpet for several days on end".I would get rid of me If I could.

I can't keep doing this.

Should I just quit?

How would I live?

I can't keep doing this.

I won't keep doing this.

By next week I would have an official certificate saying that I, Dan Howell, had pulled out of my law degree.

Dragging my bulging luggage behind me, I breathe in the familiar scent of bleach and expressos. Why so many stairs? Breathlessly, I approach the front desk.

"Hello? I'm here for my room key – Phil Lester"

The receptionist gave me a disinterested stare and blew a bubble with whatever overpoweringly grape-scented gum she was chewing.

"Lester?"

"That's me"

Moving at an excruciatingly slow pace, she began to scroll through the mess that is Manchester University's database until she found my file. Sliding a key across the desk towards me she drawls,

" Room 264 – with a Mr Dan Howell"

My breath hitches in my chest, surely not. Dan? With the sound of my heartbeat in my ears, I throw a quick thank you in her general direction and almost sprint in the direction of the lift.

"Wait."

I turn round, not believing the words I'm hearing-

" Sorry, Daniel Howell, quit his law sometime this week so obviously won't be needing to stay on site. We'll reassign you a new room mate as quick as possible."

I do the best I can not to break down until I reach the safety of the lift.

Then the tears come.

*** One year later***

It started off as something to do to take my mind off things, I have nothing but time after all since I left uni. It was the right decision. I told myself that everyday when I'd walk down the stairs and see the blank space of wall where my parents had told me they were going to frame my degree. Yes, I went home. There wasn't really anywhere else I could go. However, I couldn't stay. Their disappointment and fears and constant "checking up" on me meant I spent most of my time on the verge of having an emotional breakdown. So I moved out. Well I guess it wasn't as simple as that; more like I spent months trying to convince them to let me leave and simultaneously searching for a place to stay. That place came in the form of a friend from secondary school – Louise. I don't really know where I'd be without her to be honest and I could go on about how grateful I am but I've never been good with words and I don't think I could ever sound sincere enough.

Anyway, the videos, that's what I'm doing now (apart from a couple of shifts and the local Tesco but I prefer not to talk about that). Louise got tired of me 'moping about' and told me to get a hobby, so I balanced my battered laptop on a precariously lopsided stack of books and CDs, talked to myself in front of it and then posted it for the whole internet to see. I don't think that was quite what she was envisioning but it's done the job – I feel like I have a purpose, however pathetic and cliché that sounds. My viewers say they miss me if I don't bother uploading. I don't think anyone's ever said they missed me before.

Lying amongst a tangle of wires on the living room floor, I sigh. There's no sign of whatever insidious cable I've been searching for and my attempt at sorting out the assorted electrics that are scattered around the house, somehow has seemed to make everything even more of a mess. Resigning myself to the fact that I wont be uploading tonight, I slouch off in the direction of my sofa crease and, as if on auto-pilot, end up on tumblr.I still find it weird that people have entire accounts dedicated to me, an anxiety-fuelled, majorly colour blind geek who rants about my failures on the internet. Sometimes though, it's fun to see what people are up to, what crazy theories they've "brought to light". One of the best of these theory accounts in my opinion is "the_power_of_triangles", where this anonymous fan has said that I could both possibly be cryogenically re-animated Hitler or Justin Bieber's transgender twin. I know Louise will moan at me later for my lack of productivity this evening (earlier she'd mentioned something about a CV? A dating app? Neither possibilities sound good) but my mind is a restless, dredging up unwanted thoughts and churning them around my brain. Scrolling aimlessly, I'm not really paying any attention to the endless stream of shitposts that make up my feed but then something catches my eye, or rather the fact that this thing has been sent to me multiple times. Clicking on the link I realise it's a video – "My Soulmate Experience". Why would people be sending me this? The topic of soulmates is still a little sore with me considering the fact that he absence of mine has meant my life is, for the best part, in monochrome.

By the end of the video I'm in tears. I don't even know why. Whether it be the pain in this "Amazing Phil"s voice whenever he talks of his soulmate, or the fact that the video cuts off halfway through a sentence, it doesn't change the fact that Louise comes back home to find me huddling in a duvet sushi roll, downing maltesers and bawling my eyes out. She knows me well enough not to question me and simply shoves a pot noodle in my hand and turns on "Bake off" (someone's flan is collapsing). I really don't know what I'd do without her.

It might be an understatement to say that I'm a fan of Amazing Phil – Phil trash #1 is more like it. Since that first video I've been hooked, marathoning the epic and quirky sagas that seem to be his life. Sometimes I wonder how he does it, continues smiling when everywhere he goes must surely remind him of what slipped away. I've rewatched that video thousands of times, always noticing something different that breaks my heart: the way his eyes linger on the swirling brown of his coffee, the way his voice cracks, the way he turns off the camera mid-way through speaking and the entire thing is devoid of the multitudes of jump cuts and editing that are normally his signature. Also, ok, it does help that he's cute, the shallow being that I am, I can appreciate the way his pale features seem to almost glow, his fine, dark hair, the curve of his hips…

The only thing that leaves me cold are his eyes, which are almost entirely black. This isn't unusual for me but still, it just doesn't seem right that someone like Phil, so colourful and bright and full of life, should have such lifeless black holes.

I've had to spend a lot of time looking at pictures of eyes, trying to rationalise my fear of them. Sometimes I joke that if the whole soulmate thing worked via photograph or video then I would surely have met them by now, even if they're some random stock photo model. Sadly, as though to make things even harder, it has to be in real life, eye-to-eye, something I've never had the courage to do.

The funny thing is that the whole reason why people kept sending me his soulmate video, is because of this whole crazy theory that someone on tumblr came up with and now people have started shipping us. I know. Tumblr is a place I will never truly understand. Anyway, due to the fact that Phil and I both live in the general vicinity of Manchester and that I have brown eyes (his soulmate colour),I've seen a couple of fanfiction floating around where I'm his long lost lover, which is pretty hilarious (that's the only reason I'm reading them of course) (nothing to do with how the way he covers his mouth when he laughs makes everything feel warm) (nothing to do with the fact that I've been counting down the days u tip I might have a chance to meet him at playlist live)(4 days, 17 hours and 26 minutes to go).

Relieved to be finally able to stretch my legs after nine hours of cramping my lanky limbs into the too-small aeroplane seat, I relish the way in which the heat immediately envelopes me as soon as I emerge from the north-pole level air conditioned tin can that just flew me above the sea. I know that in a couple of hours I'll be moaning at the relentless sun, but for now I smile as I take in the blue sky and palm trees.

By the time I eventually get to the hotel, a combination of jet lag and boredom means that instead of going over the schedule for tomorrow, I immediately flop onto the thin bed and, without bothering to change, fall to sleep.

Dreams- I'm not obsessed with them like PJ or anything, never been one to read much into them seeming as most of the time they're just surreal projections of my day. However, this time my dreaming was different…

I'm standing in the kitchen from my childhood, decked out in all it's outdated 80's décor glory. Its silent apart from the timid pattering of the rain against the window. It's silent for a long while. Suddenly the high-pitched whistling of kettle permeates the stillness and, as though watching myself from afar, I begin to make a cup of coffee. My family were all proud stereotypical, English, tea-drinkers, but I'd never liked the taste, preferring the darker, richer taste of coffee. Also, due to my time working in a café and the perks of free drinks that came with it, I've become quite addicted over the years, craving it as soon as I wake up. I grab a chipped mug from the cabinet and pour in some powder, a far stretch from the fancy cafetière I rely on now, but it's warm and the smell is instantly comforting in this strange, cold, alternate universe. Opening the fridge, I'm met with a dim yellow light and a lone carton of milk. The routine is unsettling, unaccompanied by the usual hubbub and distractions of life – no background television, no roommate complaining about the disappearance of his cereal. Looking down into the overflowing cup I begin to cry. Crumpling to the sticky vinyl floor, I realise that I've poured too much milk in and now it's too creamy to resemble the brown of a certain someone's eyes.

There. Are. So. Many. People.

Comparatively, my small gathering of viewers was nothing to the likes of YouTube Overlords like PewDiePie, but still people turned up. People queued just to see me. At first it was all a bit overwhelming, the oppressive heat and the incessant noise threatening to break me but then – they were so nice, although nice doesn't seem like a good enough qualifier. People seemed generally happy to chat to me, a university dropout with questionable mental health. That fact is still continuing to blow my mind.

Now that everyone's dispersed and I have nothing planned but to wander around for the day, the full scale of the even comes into focus.I left my glasses behind at the hotel,the euphoria of the day numbing the pestering feelings in my brain telling me to run and hide. I don't know how I thought a couple of trips to the shop and making eye contact with whoever was at the checkout could prepare me for this, but it seems to be through the crowds, I don't feel scared. I feel excited. Phi's panel ends at ten and my entire body is experiencing a juxtaposing mess of emotions – I am finally going to meet the guy who I've been doodling on napkins, wondering about his favourite book and dedicatedly watching for what if he hates me? What if he actually turns out to be a giant arsehole? If I make a fool of myself?

Before I can change my mind I slip through into the backstage area to wait for Phil to come off. Wringing my hands raw, I strain to hear Phil's voice over the screaming of fans. He's saying his goodbyes now. He'll be here any minute.

I am now at a risk of hyperventilating.

Then I see him.

A goofy smile plastered on my face, I hand my microphone to the tech waiting for me and wave my goodbyes to the other youtubers who'd just experienced the full onslaught of playlist live – in the most amazing, fantastical way possible.

Its him.

Sunlight filtering through the curtains, illuminating the sheen on the tip of his nose, I know. And I know he knows. His cheeks flush pink and his smile – my god –he hands and his lips look ragged with nerves but when his dimple deepens with that awry smile now beaming at me – just, just wow.

Then there's his eyes. Eyes which have continued to haunt me despite the last time I saw them being on a cold day in September so many years ago. Eyes so dark you'd think they would be dead but no, these eyes are full of life and warmth and which are now brimming with tears, and as he goes to touch my cheek, I realise so are mine.

Blue and yellow and green and – him. Phil. Phil Lester. The sepia around me swirls in shades my eyes have never tasted before and yellow and green and and skies and forests and sun –hazy memories sharpening into focus as my life is played out in technicolour. Even his skin seems to be shaded with sky, cerulean and azure and – Phil moves to brush the tears from my cheeks and my god it's like a thousand cliches but when he presses his lips to mine it's like fireworks of green and blue and yellow. Not because he's my soulmate, or because he's my idol but because in this moment he's him – and that's all I could ever want.

His voice brakes when he whispers in my ear –

"It's about time."


End file.
